A Cold Reality
by EmiliaMartakis
Summary: Historical! Cold War! Hetalia. Former KGB agent Ivan Braginsky recounts his life as a secret agent and his time spying on American official Alfred Jones, a man of many surprises, in an era of distrust and corruption. Russia x America.
1. Chapter 1

A Cold Reality.

_Hetalia belongs to Hidekez Himaraya! But one can dream, right? ;)_

**Prologue**

**November 9****th****, 1989**

_I'm Peter Jennings in New York. Just a short while ago, astonishing news from East Germany, where the East Germany authorities have said ,in essence, that the Berlin Wall doesn't mean anything anymore._

Ivan lifts up his head to look at the TV screen, narrowing his eyes. His gnarled hand shakes as he lifts the cup of coffee up to his mouth as the ABC news reporter continues, telling the world the news of the Berlin Wall. The waitress in front of him sets down her pitcher on the bar, her painted-red mouth opening in shock and amazement. The whole diner seems to freeze, hanging on every word of the news report. Ivan blinks, disconcerted, as the reporter goes on.

_Anyone who wants to leave East Germany and travel to the West and return will need a visa, but visas will be granted immediately, or at least urgently, as said by police stations all over the country._

In the background, a woman begins to sob, with happiness Ivan presumes, but he pays no mind to her, his sole focus the report. As the news changes to less important things, he stares back down at his coffee, black with sugar, just the way he likes it, at his hands, stiff with rheumatism, weakly gripping the mug. Hands that, in a sense, helped to build that Wall. Oh, how the world has changed. To him, it seems like only yesterday when he was in his prime, an agent of the KGB, spying for the Russians, gathering information from the highest organizations in America. And now. . .still in America, gathering coffee from the local diners and alcohol from the closest bars. How he has fallen. Ivan snorts faintly, dryly amused. If it weren't for that damn American, he might have been back in Moscow, receiving honors of the highest order, perhaps even a promotion or two. He could have fulfilled his dream of becoming the next KGB chairman, a highly coveted position. If it weren't for that damn American. . .Ivan sighs and runs a hand through his thinning white-blond hair, mostly gray with age, and puts his plaid newsboy cap on. He stands up from his bar stool slowly, carefully, trying not to put weight on his bad leg. An old injury from the War, it still pains him, especially in his old age. The formerly-surprised waitress smacks her bubblegum and eagerly grabs the bill that he slapped on the bar, setting down her coffee pitcher and pushing back her curly hair.

"Hey, Grandpa," she calls around her gum.

Ivan raises his eyebrows and glances at her. The rest of the diner has dissolved into eager, excited chatter after the news report.

"You're Russian, right?" She smacks on her gum and raises a perfectly stenciled eyebrow at him.

Ivan stiffens and stands up straight, adjusting his tan overcoat. "I once was. But those days have gone."

The waitress looks at him for a moment, then shrugs and puts the pitcher back on the coffeemaker. "Got any family that's free now?"

He looks at her back blankly as she adjusts the dials on the machine. "I. . .I don't know. The last time I saw any of my relatives was in the Fifties'."

"Mmmhmm. So, you ain't a Commie?" She turns around and leans on the bar counter and gestures at him to take a seat. He looks at her for a moment before gingerly sitting back down in his former seat. His coffee is still there, and he grips it gratefully.

"Hey, Grandpa, I'm curious now. Why are you even here? Tell me about it." She seems demanding to him, but he feels almost drawn to answer her questions. It's been decades since he's even began to tell someone about his life.

"So eager to listen to the ramblings of an old man?" he wheezes.

She chews on her gum thoughtfully in response to his question. "You seem different to me. You've done some stuff and been some places, old man. I can tell."

Ivan chuckles and takes off his hat, leaning on the bar almost eagerly, feeling able to talk about his life now that Wall is down. "It's a long story, miss."

"I've got time. My shift ends in five hours; I got the evening shift. Besides, this place gets no traffic beyond locals anyway."

"Alright then. If you honestly want to hear my story, I'll start when I was a young man, fresh from the army and the War- I presume you know which?"

She nods, leaning on the heels of her hands. "You look 'bout the same age as my Gramps, so the Second World War?"

"Very good. Yes, I was a private in the Red Army then. Not a particularly good soldier, as you can tell by my rank, but my talents lied elsewhere. I'll start my tale in 1954, after a few years of being home from the war. . ."

* * *

_Allllllllright then. This story is the second part of my War Museum inspirations. I plan on around 18 chapters at the moment, but we'll see how this develops. I actually don't ship or support Russia x America, but it was the best pairing for this in my eyes. xD Please review! They are much appreciated :)_


	2. Notice!

Dear Readers,

Please allow me a lot of time for "A Cold Reality", as this takes an incredible amount of research and time to write, but I promise to update as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience!


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